Persecution
by Rosi92
Summary: Chapter 11: Apologies for the title. Tritter finally takes the ultimate revenge on House. Who, by the way, is steadily growing less and less sane.
1. Chapter 1 : The End of the Beginning

All righty then. This is the first fic that I've written that has been any longer than a oneshot. Few little things to get out of the way. First, I do not own House, MD. House, MD is David Shore's toy, and he won't let me borrow it. Second, this story ain't gonna be nice. The first chapter's okay, but later on there's gonna be violence, there's gonna be sexual stuff, and there's almost certainly gonna be naughty words. If you don't like that kind of stuff, then don't read it. There is also gonna be a fair amount of slash (although probably not too explicit) between everyone's favorite oncologist and everyone's favorite diagnostician, because I'm like that. Finally, beware the minor Cam-bashing. She's not that bad, really. This is just how I perceive the idea of her relationship with House.

Okay. On with the story.

Chapter 1

Cameron sighed, rubbing her forehead with the end of her pen. She couldn't help but worry about House. Something was off, not quite right. House had returned to work for the first time since his two week vacation that morning, and even before he had said a word Cameron had realized that he had changed. He was thinner and paler than she could remember him ever having been, and it was as if he had aged ten years in a fortnight. He seemed to be in a lot of pain, and not just from his leg, but he wasn't displaying it by means of shouting and pacing, as was the norm. He wasn't displaying it at all. But after working for the man for nearly three years, Cameron could tell. Call it women's' intuition. She just knew.

Aside from the physical, she, along with Chase and Foreman, hadn't been able to help noticing how his behavior had changed. Cuddy had insisted that House take a vacation after his return from rehab at the end of February, and had even gone so far as to pick out a location and book flights and a hotel for him. Cameron had worried about House going alone, but House, Wilson, Cuddy, Chase and Foreman had all reassured her that House was, in fact, a grown man who could look after himself quite easily. Cameron had also been unable to deny the fact that House had been in desperate need of a vacation - rehab had left him cleaner than he had been in years, but exhausted, both mentally and physically. House had pretended to grumble and protest when Cuddy had told him that he was going to Hawaii for two weeks, but the lure of no clinic duty proved to be greater than the fear of the boredom that would result from a lack of medical cases. The whole point was that when House returned he would be relaxed, refreshed, and ready to start living his life again. The reality was about as far from that as it was possible to be. House was acting as though he had a severe case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, his eyes darting around the room, hands constantly fidgeting, jumping whenever anyone spoke. All three of the fellows had called him on his strange behavior, but each time, they'd been greeted with the same "Fine, I'm fine".

A couple of minutes ago, half way through the differential diagnosis of their newest patient (a particularly interesting case that Cameron had found after literally days of sifting through referrals and requests for consults), House had begun to sweat heavily and his breathing rate had sped up. He had thrown a couple more possible diagnoses at them, before hurrying into his office and slamming the door. They had watched as House had sat down at his desk and placed his head in his hands. The three fellows had been left confused and, in Cameron's case, extremely worried.

Something must have happened, Cameron decided. She had no idea what, but she cared about House and she _knew_ that House cared about her too. She wasn't naïve enough to think that he was in love with her, but then again, she wasn't naïve enough to believe that people fell in love. Love was something that had to be worked towards. She had no doubts that she and House could have a healthy, functional relationship, but it would need a lot of work and a lot of time. The point was that if there was something bothering House this badly, Cameron wanted to know about it so that she could help him. She got to her feet.

"Hi. I'm looking for Greg House?"

Cameron turned her head quickly at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. At the door to the conference room stood a tall African-American woman in her mid-forties. Her hair was meticulously braided, and had been pulled back into a professional ponytail. Her clothes were not dissimilar to those that Cuddy was wearing that day: a white blouse, a navy blue blazer and a matching knee-length navy skirt.

"Who are you?" Cameron couldn't keep notes of suspicion and wariness from creeping into her voice. Which was perfectly reasonable, in her opinion. After all, the last time a person that she didn't know had walked into the conference room, her boss had ended up on the floor with two bullets in his body.

The woman walked briskly over to Cameron and held out her hand. "Abbey Stokes. I'm a friend of Greg; we met last week. Could you tell me where he is?"

Slightly dubiously, Cameron shook Abbey's hand. "He's in his office, just through there." She gestured in the appropriate direction. "But he's not very well today. He probably doesn't want any vis-"

"In that case, I'll be sure to keep things short. Thank you for your help." She walked through into House's office. Cameron watched as Stokes placed a hand gently on House's shoulder. House jerked violently, and even from a distance Cameron could see that House was in a state of panic. Seeing Stokes, he seemed to calm slightly.

"So that's what House was doing in Hawaii," Chase said, interrupting Cameron's reverie. He snickered at his own joke. The ghost of a smile appeared on Foreman's face.

"House hasn't had sex with her!" Cameron said sharply, "And if he has, then it's none of our business." None of _their_ business, at any rate. She could feel something hot and painful in the pit of her stomach. Stokes wasn't House's girlfriend. House didn't have a girlfriend. There was an innocent explanation.

"Maybe that's why he's been acting so strange. Withdrawal from his new girlfriend," grinned Foreman.

"I can't believe that you two think this is funny," hissed Cameron. "There is something very wrong with House, and you both saw it. Stop making stupid, juvenile jokes and start thinking about what could be the problem!"

"Relax, Cameron," said Chase. "He said he was fine."

"He always says that he's fine. It doesn't mean he is."

Their almost-argument was interrupted by the arrival of Wilson. "Hi, you three. Have you seen-"

"House is in his office," Cameron told him. She decided to ask the obvious question, straight out. "He's been acting strangely today. Stranger than usual. Do you know if anything happened to him while he was in Hawaii?"

Wilson tensed. He was silent for a couple of seconds. "Well?" prompted Cameron.

"He was, uh, in a car accident."

"Oh my God! Is he okay? When was this, exactly?"

"He's, um, he's fine. Not hurt, not badly, anyway. But, uh, he was trapped in the car for a long time while the EMTs tried to get him out. That might explain why he's a little jumpy."

Cameron frowned. House wasn't the only one acting jumpy. Wilson wasn't telling her the whole truth. But what Wilson was saying made sense. It was a plausible explanation for what was wrong with House.

Wilson looked over towards the office for the first time. He looked a little confused at the extra person. "Who is House talking to?" he asked.

Foreman shrugged. "Said her name was Abbey Stokes. Know her?"

Wilson's face cleared. "Ah, yes. House met her in Hawaii. I guess you could say that they're friends."

Friends, Cameron told herself, friends, nothing more. She looked again at the scene in House's office. House and Stokes were deep in conversation. Cameron could see that one of House's hands was lying on the table, and that Abbey had placed one of her hands on top of it.

She felt as though the bottom of her stomach had just dropped out. There was a stinging feeling in the corners of her eyes. Oh, God. She had to get out of the conference room before she started bawling in front of everyone.

"If you'll excuse me, I need to be in the clinic." Cameron hurried in the direction of the door, ignoring Chase's shout of "But what about the patient?".

Abbey Stokes barely looked up as Wilson entered the room. House was still looking a little panicky, Wilson noted, but nowhere near as bad as he could have been. House jumped when the door closed, but when he saw Wilson, he seemed to relax completely. Wilson made his way over to House's desk, choosing to stand behind House, with his hands placed comfortingly on the older man's shoulders.

"Good morning, James," Abbey greeted the oncologist. "How are you?"

"Fine, thank you, Abbey," Wilson replied. "How are things going?"

"Well, Greg seems to be doing okay, but I can't say that being back at work is going to be the best thing for him at the moment." House opened his mouth to protest, but Abbey cut in front of him. "Yes, I know that you want to return your life to normal, but you can't just pretend that nothing happened. You've been through some very traumatic events, and you need to take your time in your recovery. I'm going to recommend that the two of you take another week off to recuperate and talk about what has happened."

Wilson nodded. "I think that that would be a good idea."

House was determined to shoot the idea down in flames. "Cuddy wouldn't let the two of us-"

"Of course she would. She knows what you've been through."

"Will the two of you stop cutting in front of me?" Wilson couldn't help but smile at that comment. House sounded annoyed. He sounded normal. That was a big change from the quiet, subdued, scared person that he had become over the last fourteen days.

Abbey continued. "I'd like to come and see the two of you at some point during the week, if that's okay. I'd also like Greg to be referred to a psychiatrist. I can help him a little, but really I'm a bereavement counselor. This kind of work isn't what I'm trained to do."

"Of course. Thanks for everything you've done, Abbey."

Abbey got to her feet. "Well, I only really called in because I was passing and I wanted to see how the two of you were getting on. I would stay longer, but I'm already late for work. I'll give you a call, James, and we'll arrange something."

Once Abbey had left, Wilson sat down in the seat that she had vacated. He was silent. He knew better than to push the conversation. House would speak when he was ready. Maybe they'd have an argument. Maybe House would reveal something. Most likely, House would say nothing. Wilson still didn't know exactly what had gone on, and he knew that it would take time to find out.

"Wilson?"

"Mm?"

"I'm ready." Wilson was shocked. He hadn't expected this. So much for taking time to find out.

"Are you sure? We don't have to do this now. We could wait until we get home-"

"No. I want to tell you now."

"Okay, House. Tell me what happened."

Reviews are life. This idea has been running around my head for a little while now, so I figured it was about time to show it to the outside world. Of course, if the outside world is disgusted by this chapter, then I'll put it back in its cage. Just say the word.


	2. Chapter 2 : Reunion

Well, I got five reviews, and they were all fairly positive. I am therefore continuing – if you happened to hate the first chapter, you can blame **BethTX, gh2005, bmax, TakeAWhackAtIt **and **Boys Don't Cry**.

(You guys rock.)

Chapter 2

_Two weeks previously..._

Lisa Cuddy was a wonderful person, mused House as he made his way towards the check in desks. Two weeks in Hawaii, in the sun, all expenses paid, away from the clinic and away from Cameron's diabetes-inducing sympathy. God, he had had enough of that to last a lifetime. If he never saw the woman again, it would be too soon.

Sure, he knew that the only reason Cuddy had sent him had been that she felt guilty about him going to rehab. And so she should do. He didn't have a drug problem – he had never had a drug problem. He had a pain problem. If he took more Vicodin than he was prescribed, it was because he was in pain. Why did nobody else understand that?

Well. There was one person that understood. After all the years that House had spent fighting to make Wilson understand that his pain was real, the oncologist finally seemed to get it. The last few months had made the biggest difference. Wilson had come to visit a few times while he as in rehab, and the two of them had, as Cuddy put it, "kissed and made up". Wilson had apologised for selling House out to Tritter. House had apologised (in his own way) for _not_ apologising to Tritter in the first place.

Then had come the kissing part.

Yep, thought House, the two of them were well and truly reconciled.

He thought back to the conversation that they had had just before House had set out for the airport.

"House!" Wilson called out, jogging to catch up with the older man.

"Wilson!" House replied, turning around.

Wilson was slightly out of breath. "House, before you go, I need to talk to you about your pain management regime."

"What pain management regime?" House asked bitterly. "Cuddy seems to believe in the power of healing through positive thoughts."

"Yeah, well, I happen to believe in the power of healing through medicine." Wilson held out a pill bottle, which House took. He examined the label.

"Vicodin?" Wilson nodded. "I only just got out of rehab. What are you, my enabler?"

"I'm just your friend."

"That's not what you said last night," House leered.

Wilson flushed. "Keep your voice down. Look, take the damn pills. You're in pain, you need to manage it. Just... promise me you'll only take them when you need them. One every four hours, maximum. And no dry swallowing."  
"Okay, mom." House rolled his eyes. "And I promise to wash behind my ears, and eat my greens. I've got a flight to catch." House pocketed the Vicodin and turned to leave.

"Don't you want a kiss goodbye?"

House froze. "Now did I say that?" He turned to face Wilson again, and leaned inwards so that his lips met Wilson's. The kiss only lasted a few seconds, but all the same, Wilson was blushing when the two of them broke apart. House was smiling.

"Sir? May I see your passport please?" The woman at the check in desk brought House swiftly back to reality. His smile, however, remained on his face.

---------------

House sat down at a table in the airport café and checked his watch. Five past eight in the morning. Good job he had coffee. He still had a good half hour to kill before he needed to get on his plane. He found himself wishing that he had dragged Wilson into his office to say a _proper_ goodbye. That would have been a much more entertaining way of spending thirty minutes than drinking overpriced airport coffee at an overpriced airport coffee shop.

Suddenly, there was something hard pressing into House's back. If Wilson had been there, that would have been a good thing, but as it was, the mysterious pressure was unlikely to be good. Whenever this happened in movies or crime novels, the mysterious hard object turned out to be a gun. Still, he shouldn't jump to conclusions.

"Is that a pistol that you're grinding into my back, or are you just pleased to see me?" he asked no one in particular.

"You had it right the first time," hissed a low voice which sounded vaguely familiar to House. "Don't turn around. Stand up, slowly, and walk out of here."

House didn't move. "Put the gun down first." He wasn't exactly afraid. He'd already been shot once – okay, technically he'd been shot twice – so he figured that he could survive a third bullet. Still, the first two had been moderately painful, and he wasn't keen to go through that again.

A soft, familiar laugh from behind him. "Just do what you're told, House, or I'll fire my 9mm into your heart."

"From behind?"

"I'm a good shot. Don't make me ask you again." House heard the telltale sound of the safety catch being removed. This, he decided, would be a good time to start doing what the gunman had instructed. He rose slightly unsteadily to his feet. He still wasn't afraid, he told himself. His leg was a little cramped, that was all.

"Good boy," the gunman told him condescendingly. House felt the gun slip underneath his jacket – the gunman was making himself less obvious. Damn. "Now start walking towards the exit. If you talk to anyone, try to let anyone know what's happening, I'll kill you. Just get out of here."

House's mind raced as he followed the man's orders. He was being threatened; he hadn't been shot outright. That meant that the man wanted him alive, at least for the time being. If he could just figure out who his captor was... Someone that he knew well, or had known well. Someone who probably didn't normally whisper – otherwise, House would have a name by now. Was it worth taking a chance and looking to see who his attacker was? He tested it by jerking his head slightly to the right.

The gun dug deeper into his back. "Eyes forward, House. No turning around unless you want my finger to slip."

Okay. That was a 'no' on the turning around front, then. Still, he had learned that the gunman knew his name. That meant that this, whatever this was, was personal.

The two of them walked out through the main doors of the airport. House stopped.

"Where now?"

"That police car, just over there. Walk over to it, open the door and get in."

House did as he was told. He was moving on autopilot – his brain was completely dedicated to trying to work out who this voice belonged to. Fairly deep, mildly husky, definitely male. Words spoken slowly and deliberately, weight given to each syllable.

House opened the rear door of the squad car and swung himself into the seat. His attacker slammed the car door shut, and as he did so, House caught a glimpse of his face for the first time.

His heart pounded in his ears. No way. No fucking way.

Michael Tritter sat down in the driver's seat and levelled the gun at House once more.

"It's good to see you again, House. How have you been?"


	3. Chapter 3 : Hostage

Hey, a load more people reviewed! Isn't that great? You guys, you rock. To everyone else who is reading this: If you don't review, I'll bite your nose off. Simple as that.

Chapter 3

House was still in shock as Tritter locked the doors. He was vaguely aware of Tritter reaching between the front two seats and cuffing his hands together, but his brain was too busy trying to process the idea that the man who had almost had House sent to prison was kidnapping him.

Eventually, as Tritter turned around and put the car into gear, House managed to form a sentence. "What are you doing?"

"We're going on a little trip," Tritter informed him, accelerating out of the parking lot. "Don't do anything stupid, and I won't kill you."

"Stop the car," House told him, miraculously managing to keep his voice steady.

Tritter gave a low laugh as he switched on the sirens and sped up as they left Newark Airport behind. "Dr. House, you're forgetting that I have a gun. I don't have to do anything that I don't want to."

"Where are we going?" House demanded. He couldn't stand this feeling of being out of control. Even just knowing what was going on would help him feel less panicky. He wouldn't have been this frightened if Tritter had just shot him, like the last guy. It was the uncertainty that got him.

"Patience, Dr. House. You'll find out in time."

Ten minutes later, Tritter pulled up in front of an abandoned-looking warehouse at the edge of Newark. House made an attempt to move away as the detective pulled him out of the car, but Tritter was stronger than he was.

"Let me get my cane." House was disgusted to find that his tone of voice was verging on pleading.

At House's request, Tritter simply shook his head. "You won't need it where we're going."

"Yeah, well, wherever we're going, I'm not going to get there without it."

Tritter laughed again, and pulled House to his feet. House felt a spasm of pain jolt through his thigh at the sudden movement, and he fought to keep the pain from showing on his face. He remembered what his father had once told him about bullies. _Don't show them any weakness – show them that you're strong. Show them that you're a Marine._ Well, the last part was bullshit, but the first two bits made sense. His new theory, however, was no use as Tritter began to drag him over to the door of the warehouse and his leg buckled. He hissed, and, forgetting about Tritter's presence for a moment, reached instinctively for his Vicodin. His hand, shaking, didn't manage to grab hold of the pill bottle. It did, however, manage to knock the bottle out of his pocket and onto the ground.

Damn.

Tritter opened the door of the warehouse, revealing a large, bare, square room. He pulled House into the centre of the floor and threw him down. House pressed his face to the floor, desperately trying to breathe through the pain and the panic. After about a minute, he felt calm enough to look upwards. Tritter was standing over him, a smile on his face.

That was not a good sign.

"Alright then," House said. "Why don't you explain to me what the hell is going on?"

The smile stayed in place, but Tritter gave no answer. Presumably to make House even more nervous. Well, it was working.

"What are you going to do to me?" Still no response. "Kill me?"

Tritter's smile grew wider. "Oh no, Dr. House. I'm not going to kill you. At least not yet. I want you to suffer."

Where had he heard that last sentence before? Of course. His hallucination. The other guy who had threatened him with a gun had said that too.

Tritter wasn't finished. "You got off lightly, House. You had a smart lawyer. You pleaded guilty, and you sweet talked your way into getting off with two months in rehab and a fine. Things could have been worse. Things _should_ have been worse. You were meant to go to jail for ten, maybe fifteen years if I could swing it. But you haven't changed." Tritter held up the bottle of Vicodin that House had dropped earlier. "Back on the narcotics so soon? You only got home a few days ago. Rehab obviously hasn't done anything to help."  
"So you're going to torture me because you want me to stop taking drugs?"

"Not exactly."

"You're _not_ going to torture me?"

"No, I'm going to torture you. But it's not because I want you to stop taking drugs. I don't care whether you take drugs or not. I care about what you do to other people. You're an asshole. You jerk people around. You had plenty of opportunities to change, and you didn't take any of them. You brought this on yourself." Tritter paused. "I'm not just going to hurt you. I'm going to destroy you."

House's heart rate sped up, but he managed to sneer. "Destroy me? With pain? I live in pain every day. I spent the last two months suffering the kind of pain you can't even imagine, because thanks to you, I had no drugs to take away that pain. If pain was going to destroy me, it would have happened a long time ago."

Tritter continued to smile. Then he reached down, wrapped his hands around House's right thigh, and twisted.

The pain was unbelievable. Red dots appeared in front of House's eyes as he struggled to suck in air, to keep living. He couldn't scream. He couldn't move. He was literally paralyzed with pain. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to die, for his suffering to be alleviated. He hadn't felt pain this bad since right at the beginning of the infarction, just after his first surgery. And it kept on going. He expected it to recede after a couple of seconds, but it kept on going at the same intensity for what felt like years.

Finally, the pain began to diminish enough for House to start breathing properly again. There were tears in his eyes, but the pain was still intense enough for him not to care whether or not Tritter saw them.

Tritter. He was crouched next to House now, his face so close to House's that it completely filled his still blurry visions.

"You're wrong, House. Imagine that, all day, every day. Imagine worse than that. For the rest of your life. Can you honestly say that that isn't going to break you?"


	4. Chapter 4 : Pain

**AN: I'm going to warn you now, there's going to be a pretty nasty scene a bit later on. If you get icked out by the thought of blood or torture, please don't read. This chapter is probably an M. T at a push. Proceed at your own risk.**

**AN2: Sorry about the slightly long time between updates. School starts again tomorrow, so expect about one update a week. Sorry.**

Chapter 4

As the pain began to diminish, Tritter came back into focus again. He was still crouched over House, hands resting firmly on House's thigh. Tritter gave a smile, his eyes narrowed in sadistic pleasure. House knew what he was about to do.

"No," he gasped. God, he hated himself. What was he becoming? What was Tritter making him? He was so weak, so afraid of the pain. It was all about the fucking pain. Tritter couldn't twist the muscle again. He couldn't take the pain again.

Tritter laughed. "What did you say, Dr. House?"

"Please," House rasped, "Please don't." He was on the verge of saying 'I'll do anything', but he wasn't that far gone yet. He could fight this. It was just pain, just a feeling. He could get through it. He could. He would.

Another low laugh from Tritter. "Your pleading is worthless, House. You should have realized a long time ago that actions have consequences. It's too late now."

Tritter applied a little more pressure to the wasted quad muscle. House knew exactly what Tritter was trying to do. The pain would start small and grow with an enormous crescendo into complete agony. House knew what he had to look forward to, and it wasn't going to be fun.

The pressure increased by another small amount, as did the pain. House gasped, hating himself for his lack of control. Tritter must be having the time of his life, House thought bitterly. After all, this was what Tritter had wanted all along – for House to be miserable, embarrassed and, above all, humbled. Well, no amount of pain was going to convince House that he had been in the wrong. House took narcotics because he was in pain. Wilson had realized that, in the end. Admittedly, Wilson still wasn't exactly _happy_ about House's Vicodin use, but while House had been in rehab, the two of them had looked at alternative methods of pain management together, and concluded that opiates were the only things that were really going to help. Of course, Cuddy had shot the idea of House being back on the narcotics down straight away. Fair enough. Any sane person would choose a clean doctor over a drug-addicted one. Still, Wilson got it. Wilson was the only person that really mattered.

Jesus, he wished that Wilson was with him.

The pain was growing – Tritter was clearly impatient, and didn't want to waste time with building the pain up slowly. House bit his lip, clenching his teeth down harder as the pain became almost intolerable. He was barely aware of the blood running down his chin. All he could think about was the pain, the ever-increasing pain. Distantly he heard Tritter laughing, and he felt a rough hand wipe the blood across his face. That meant that Tritter was no longer pressing. But the pain was still there, still unbearable. He was a fraction of an inch away from screaming, but he knew he couldn't allow himself to do that. He had to keep at least _some_ of his dignity. Screaming would be admitting that Tritter had indeed broken him, just as he'd promised.

And it was fading again, slowly, but definitely getting better. It was just as well. He couldn't have taken much more.

But Tritter was still squatting next to him, and he still had a strange look in his eye – a combination of anticipation, excitement and satisfaction. Then those rough hands were being wrapped around his thigh again, except this time there was no twisting, no compressing, his hands were moving the wrong way. They were both moving in opposite directions, slowly but surely. He managed to raise his head, and oh God, as the pain built up once more he watched, as though detached from his body, as his femur broke in half and the end of one piece of bone was poking out through the skin. There was blood running down his leg, and he should have been in so much pain. Tritter had just snapped his thigh bone in half. Why wasn't he in pain?

Tritter was still bending. Damn, his femur was going to need pinning back together. And there was so much blood. Why was the blood getting to him? He was a doctor, for God's sake. Why was he suddenly feeling so dizzy, and-

The pain hit him like a bus. He couldn't help it. He screamed out loud, and kept on screaming, his throat growing raw as he desperately tried to push through the pain, the overwhelming pain, he couldn't think of anything else. Let him pass out, let him die. He didn't care which. He would have given his leg for a syringe of morphine.

There was a thought in the back of his mind, pushing through the haze of pain. He had lost control. He was still screaming, even now. Tritter had won. Fuck it, Tritter had won.

And then he was finally falling into oblivion.

About time.


	5. Chapter 5 : Broken

**AN: Hi everyone. Sorry for the wait, but like I said before, school started a few days ago and my exams begin in five weeks. However, since five more people reviewed, I've started thinking up a list of excuses for writing fic over revising. I'll let you know how I get on with that. Final part of my extra-long author's note – I love my reviews, and therefore I love my reviewers. Huge thanks and hugs to Dr. Gregory House, Hatori Soma, gh2005, Ravenwood85, TakeAWhackAtIt, DreamsInAbsinthe and bmax.**

**On with the fic! Which is still an M! Read at your own risk.**

Chapter 5

When House woke, his leg felt as though it was on fire. He was lying on the floor, but somehow he knew that it wasn't the floor of his apartment. Lying on the floor of his apartment would mean either that he had gotten blind drunk the night before and passed out, or that he and Wilson hadn't made it all the way to his bed for the previous night's escapade. Both a killer hangover and a stiff back and leg were entirely preferable to a leg that felt like it had been stabbed and a lurching fear in his stomach.

Why was he afraid? What was he afraid of?

Well, if he wanted to find out, he was going to have to open his eyes. He cracked open one eyelid, before immediately shutting it again at the influx of blinding light. The sudden brightness made his stomach lurch in a whole different way and he found himself tasting bile in the back of his throat. He gagged and began to retch, vomiting his meagre stomach contents onto the floor, eyes still tightly closed.

He heard a soft laugh as his puking fit ended. A familiar laugh. An all too familiar laugh.

Tritter. Of course. He was in a warehouse with Tritter and a gun. His leg hurt like hell because... Oh God. His leg was...

It couldn't really be as bad as he remembered it being, could it? (_Yes_, the pain told him, _yes it is._) He knew for a fact that Tritter had squeezed the damage muscle a few times, which accounted for the extra pain, but the part where Tritter had broken his femur and punctured the skin with it – that had been a dream, or a hallucination, right?

He forced his eyes open, unable to suppress a groan as the light flooded his brain. For a few seconds he was unable to think. Then the light adjusted to a more bearable level and he could see. He could see Tritter, sitting on a chair a couple of meters away, cradling the gun in his lap, stroking the safety catch with his thumb. The guy was crazy, House concluded. He needed some serious therapy, or alternatively, euthanasia.

He could also see his leg. And his leg bone. The broken end of the femur was poking through his pant leg, and the wound was still bleeding slightly.

House suddenly felt dizzy, his head pounding and his vision swimming. He couldn't look at the leg any more. There was too much blood. It made him feel even more nauseous than he already did. Only, that wasn't right. He couldn't have a fear of blood. He was a doctor. He wasn't afraid of blood.

It was because this blood was his. That blood should be in his arteries and in his veins, not soaking through his pants and spreading across the floor. He could smell it, and something else as well. Urine. Perfect. Just what he needed. As if Tritter hadn't already taken enough of his pride. The clinical, detached part of his brain told him that losing control of the bladder was expected following intense trauma, such as another man snapping his leg in two. He was pretty sure that he'd done exactly the same following the shooting, only no one had ever brought it up, or, he expected, even thought about it. He certainly hoped not. Really, his fellows weren't so bad. Good to have around in an emergency. Like now. Early he had been glad to get away from Cameron, but right now if she came through the door, he would kiss her. On the mouth. For about ten minutes. He would probably kiss _Vogler_ if he came in right now. Oh yeah, he was getting desperate all right.

Damn. Tritter had got up from his chair, and was walking towards him.

"Good to see you awake, House. How are you feeling?"  
House couldn't bring himself to reply. This was the man that was responsible for all his pain, all his humiliation. He was either too angry, or too scared to reply. He prayed that it was the first one.

"Anything I can get you?"

House found his voice. "How about a nice big glass of _fuck the hell off, you crazy psycho?_"

Tritter's smile widened. House was beginning to despair. Was there seriously nothing that he could do to piss Tritter off?

His thoughts were interrupted by Tritter's hands around his neck, squeezing. He couldn't breathe – his airways were being completely closed up by the pressure. Instinctively he attempted to breathe more deeply, but this only succeeded in making him panic more when this tactic failed. House shook his head violently, attempting to dislodge Tritter's hands. No way was Tritter going to kill him, no fucking way. This wasn't how he was going to die. He had an appointment with liver failure in his late fifties.

Red spots were appearing across his vision again. Loss of oxygen to the brain, he realised. Tritter wasn't letting up. He was going to die. Shit. He had never wanted Wilson to be with him more than at this moment. God, he wasn't ready to die yet. He had another ten years. It was all figured out. There were still things he wanted to do.

He laughed internally at how clichéd his thoughts were becoming. Still, being killed did tend to have that effect on people.

Jimmy, I love you.

And then he was gasping for oxygen, his lungs filling with wonderful, life-sustaining air. He had never realised that breathing could feel this good. His eyes were watering, tears streaming down his face.

Tritter's face swam into view. "Crying, House? Looks like you were wrong, doesn't it? It didn't take long to break you, did it? The things that pain will do to a person..."

In the back of his mind, House registered what Tritter was saying. He was gloating. He thought he had won. Tritter was almost right – House was becoming afraid of the older man, and in House's mind, that made him weak. But Tritter didn't know that, and House wasn't so afraid of his torturer that he couldn't still retort to that last taunt.

"No," he gasped, still breathing deeply and rapidly. Mentally, he tried to slow his breathing. If he kept going at this rate, he would start to hyperventilate, which would be almost as bad as being throttled. "I'm... I'm not... Not afraid of you. You're pathetic. You... haven't destroyed me yet, and... You're not... going to."

For a fraction of a second, Tritter looked furious. His facial expression quickly morphed from anger to determination.

That wasn't good.

"I _am_ going to break you, House," Tritter whispered. "It's just a matter of time. You'll see."

House felt Tritter take hold of his left hand. He tried to pull away – he didn't want Tritter touching him. Tritter caused pain. Flinching away from him was fast becoming a reflex. Tritter, however, held on tightly. House felt him take hold of his little finger, and then felt a surge of pain as the bone snapped. He gave a grunt, and hissed in air through his teeth, but to be honest, this wasn't so bad. It distracted him from the agonizing pain in his leg. A gating mechanism. Just like the time he had broken his hand during the detox.

Then Tritter was breaking his ring finger, and then his middle finger. The pain was fast growing worse. House was getting dizzy again, and his stomach was twisting and lurching. He was about to throw up again, he realised, but he swallowed down on the bile and tried to ride the pain out.

Tritter broke his index finger next. The pain in his hand was now rivalling the pain in his leg, and it certainly didn't help that Tritter was clutching all four of his broken fingers tightly in his own hand.

Then Tritter broke his thumb, and House lost control and yelled out in pain. A desperate mixture of pleading and prayer (which was odd, because he had never been religious) spewed out of his mouth, and Tritter was standing up again, towering above him with an expression of triumph on his face.

And why shouldn't he be triumphant? After all, he had won.


	6. Chapter 6 : Hallucinations

**AN: Thank y'all so much for your latest reviews. I've never had so many at once, and I'm really grateful to everyone. As a reward, here's (a slightly short) Chapter 6, six days early. tpel raised a good point about the plausibility of his injuries and being back at work in two weeks. Well, as I understand it, normally, someone would not be able to break another man's femur, period. However, Tritter's got to be a pretty strong guy – he works for the police, so he can't be too out of shape. Also, breaking House's right thigh bone would be easier than for any other person as he doesn't have any muscle protecting in. In reality, this would just about work, provided that Tritter worked out enough. The being back at work in two weeks thing? Well, all will be explained later on. **

**Still an M. Beware. Some fairly horrible stuff coming up, as usual. Blame tpel – that review put this idea in my head, and it wouldn't go away.**

Chapter 6

House squeezed his lips together tightly to stop himself babbling. The pain was terrible. House couldn't help but start to panic. Was he going to die in here, in this abandoned warehouse? There was no way in hell that Tritter was going to let him go. There was also no way in hell that he was going to escape, not with a busted leg and no cane. He could barely even raise his head, and he was sure that he must have lost a whole lot of blood from the compound fracture. He turned his head to the left to look at his hand. It looked awful, like something out of a horror movie. The middle and index fingers, along with the thumb, were a dark purple colour and badly swollen. The ring and baby fingers were much more of a concern.

They had turned black. Oh God, his hand was rotting. Like the builder, Cuddy's builder, the one that had fallen off the roof, Alfredo. Alfredo's hand and House's own became one confused, blurry mental picture. Even as he watched the fingers grew darker and darker. House watched in utter horror as the fingernail of his little finger detached from the flesh and slid onto the floor. The flesh was shrivelling. He could see the bone of his smallest finger. The bone was broken in the middle, between the first and second knuckles. The end of the bone fell onto the floor with a clatter.

House began to hyperventilate as the same thing happened with his ring finger. The other three fingers were also beginning to darken and shrivel up. A fly buzzed over to him and settled on the ruined thumb and started to suck up the juices of the dead flesh. He could smell it. He could smell the rotting appendage. It turned his stomach and he retched, but there was nothing left in his stomach to come up except for a small amount of bile. Stomach acid burnt at the back of his throat as he heaved and coughed, trying to tear his eyes away from the sight of his dead hand, now minus all of his fingers. And yet it was still rotting, the necrosis spreading to the main body of his hand. He could still feel his fingers burning and throbbing in pain, and yet this was impossible. His fingers were gone. They were a thing of the past.

Repulsed, House squeezed his eyes shut, and turned his head to the right, desperate to stop watching the death of his hand. He couldn't keep his eyes closed, though; it was like a car crash. He didn't want to watch, but he couldn't help himself. However, before he could look back at his hand, his attention was caught by his thigh. The bone was still there, sticking out of the muscle, or what was left of it. Was it just him, or was there even more bone poking out than before? As he watched, distracted from his fingers, the bone slid out another few inches. His pant leg ripped and fell away, and he could see his leg.

Oh God.

It had opened up along the old surgical incision, the whole muscle opened up as though his leg was being dissected. House gagged as the quad muscle began to darken. It should be red, not purple, not...

Black. His thigh muscle was dying. Again. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening.

The excruciating pain in his thigh and hand told him that this wasn't a dream. He wasn't that lucky. He watched as the muscle shrivelled up as his fingers had. He could now see the femur quite clearly. It was broken exactly in the middle, and with no flesh left to hold the leg together, the bottom half of his leg fell off as his fingers had done and rolled away across the floor towards Tritter.

House's brain couldn't take the horror any more and shut itself down. House slid gratefully into the dark.

---------------

Tritter sat in his chair, watching House writhing on the floor. Tritter felt fairly pleased with what he had managed so far. From where he was sitting, House looked a pretty long way from sane. Tritter was slightly surprised at just how much pain he had managed to cause simply by pressing down on the damaged thigh. Still, he had a fairly long way to go before he was satisfied that House was completely broken and was ready to kill him. Tritter looked at House's hand. He was fairly pleased with the damage that he had done – all five broken fingers were swollen and purple. Maybe later he would work on the main body of the hand. Yes, that sounded like a good idea.

The leg, he wasn't quite so happy with. He had definitely heard a crack when he was bending and twisting the leg yesterday. Admittedly that hadn't been a part of the original plan, but the more pain, the better, he reasoned. There was probably a hairline fracture to the femur, nothing more.

But the physical injuries would, in time, get better. House's hand would mend, the pain in his thigh would ease. The mental anguish, however, was something that Tritter was sure wouldn't go away completely for the rest of House's life.

Tritter would make sure of that.


	7. Chapter 7 : Inscriptions

**AN: As ever, I'm sorry about the wait. School, and all that. Thanks to all reviewers, and I'm sorry for any mental scarring. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this, the latest chapter of my great masterpiece (snort). I still don't own House, MD. "What is this fic rated?" I hear you ask. Well, gentle reader, this particular fic is rated an M – yes, that's right, an M. **

**Here we go.**

Chapter 7

House opened his eyes, and immediately wished that he hadn't. Tritter, the man who had become the one constant in House's life, was crouching over him. Tritter, the man who had broken his fingers...

His fingers. Crap. He looked down at his hand, feeling the nausea swelling up inside him at the memory of his fingers rotting. He didn't want to look, but he had to. His head was in the right position now, but all he was seeing was black. Oh, right. He'd closed his eyes. He forced himself to count to three, and then wrenched his eyelids apart.

His hand was there. All of it. All five fingers were firmly attached – they were purple and significantly larger than usual, sure, but they were there. What the hell was going on? No way had what had happened earlier been a dream. It had been way too real. Nobody had dreams _that _vivid. He had smelled the rotting flesh. Even the memory made his stomach turn. His throat was still raw from screaming. He couldn't have imagined it all. Could he?

House raised his head, ignoring the dizzying sensation that the small movement provoked, and trained his eyes on his right thigh. For one thing, his lower leg was still there. For another, he couldn't see the bone. He couldn't even see any blood. What the hell? His thigh was throbbing angrily, in a way that made him suspect that he had definitely done some damage, but the pain was nowhere near as bad as it should be, nowhere near as bad as he remembered it being. So, what? Had he hallucinated the part where his leg had fallen off? Where his fingers had rotted? Where his femur had been broken? Or was he hallucinating now? He could no longer tell the difference between reality and delusion. It was an all too familiar feeling.

He felt his neck snap to one side as Tritter slammed his fist into House's face. If House hadn't been in so much pain and so confused, he would have been impressed by the amount of force that the detective managed to put into the swing. He was almost certain that he had heard something crack. Or had he? Was he even awake? He couldn't be certain of anything any more.

Tritter's hands were suddenly being placed on either side of House's head, and he felt Tritter manoeuvre him so that the two of them were making eye contact. House felt shame burning in his gut as he realized that hallucination or no, he was still terrified of the man persecuting him. Looking into a pair of blue eyes more than a little similar to his own, House felt his palms begin to sweat. This may or may not be reality, but the pain would be real. That much he knew.

To his surprise, House felt his nerves settle slightly as he was that Tritter was holding a knife tightly in his right hand. The small part of his brain that was still thinking rationally told him that this was simply the fight or flight reflex kicking in at long last. However, another part of him couldn't help but take comfort in the fact that Tritter was going to torture him. It wasn't that he was a masochist. Tritter was a constant – the pain that he caused was a constant. It was fear of the unknown that he couldn't take. He could take the pain.

House felt Tritter pulling off first his right shoe, then his sock. Fear stirred in him again. What was Tritter going to do? Why a knife? He hadn't used a knife before.

"Take the pain like a man, House," Tritter told him, in barely more than an elated whisper. House nodded in agreement. He could cope with the pain. The body forgets pain. It forgets the intensity. House had forgotten.

He screamed out loud as Tritter dug the knife into the sole of his foot and dragged it up from the toe to his heel, opening up a gash in the skin and muscle. His vision was pulsating, red and blue and gray and black. Swimming, swirling, dizzying, sickening twists of nauseatingly bright colours.

Tritter's face was there again, as always. "Still think you stand a chance there, House?"

House gave a grunt.

"Answer me." The knife dug into the ball of his foot again and again. Random gashes? House wasn't so sure. Nothing with Tritter was ever random. Everything was planned and calculated.

"No!" House gasped.

"'No' what?"

"Don't... Not... Win..."

More pressure, more pain. House wished that Tritter would just plunge the knife into his heart and get it over with now.

"Grovel."

"Wha... What?" No way was House going to grovel. He was broken, but he wasn't utterly pathetic.

"Grovel, House. Plead with me to stop." That look in Tritter's eyes... the man was enjoying this. He loved the power. Well, huffed House's inner sane person, if Tritter liked power so much, why couldn't he just indulge in some light BDSM like everyone else?

Stupid crazy people.

"Not... going... grovel. No."

More pressure, more pain. Pressure. Pain. God, House was so tired. He just wanted to sleep. Preferably eternally. His eyelids were drooping, threatening to close.

A particularly sharp stab to his foot brought him back to the land of the living with a yelp of agony. Damn, he couldn't take this anymore. Whatever Tritter wanted.

"Please... Please! Stop! I'll... do... anything. _Anything_."

Tritter pulled the knife out. "There. Was that so hard?" And then the knife was being plunged back in again. House didn't have the energy to scream.

A couple of minutes later, it was all over. House just about managed to raise his head enough to look at the sole of his foot. Beneath the blood, House could make out words. Tritter had carved words into his foot. House squinted. The sight of the blood was making him feel nauseous and dizzy, and he knew that he could only stay awake for so long.

Four words: one, and then the other three beneath it.

_Michael Tritter was here_.


	8. Chapter 8 : Musings of a Wilson

**AN: So, guys, who's ready for a little bit of a break from the angst? Well, me, for one. I therefore present to you a K+ rated chapter, set at PPTH, with no Tritter, no torture and very little in the way of angst. Beware the Cam-bashing, the blatant H/W (although I don't think that that's something that really needs a warning) and themes of drug abuse. With my mocks coming up, it's going to have to stay at about an update a week, I'm afraid. (Yeah, I know, you're all so disappointed). **

**I don't own House, MD. Come skip among the happy flowery bunny-filled meadows of Non-Angst Land!**

Chapter 8

Wilson smiled slightly as four-year-old Jack Tracy and his mother left his office. So far, Jack had been in remission for three months, and his blood work was still looking good. Wilson had accepted death as part of his job, but even so, it was always a wonderful feeling when there was a patient that he could actually save, particularly when it was a young child with a whole life ahead of them. House, naturally, thought that this was bullshit. Anything that meant anything was bullshit to House.

House. The man that meant so much to him. The man who knew so much about the world and yet so little about emotions. Rehab hadn't really helped him – and Wilson had to admit that he had never really expected it to. House wasn't a drug addict. He was a man who happened to be addicted to drugs. There was a difference, but it wasn't one that a lot of people saw. Most people were either too blind to see, or too stubborn to try to look.

Whenever doctors prescribed narcotics to pain patients, the patients were told that once they had been taking the pills for a certain period of time, usually just over a week, that they shouldn't stop taking them immediately or they would experience withdrawal symptoms. But that didn't make them addicts – it made them addicted. And there really was all the difference in the world between the two.

But just because House wasn't a drug addict, it didn't mean that he didn't need help. The man had been falling apart. That had been proved on Christmas Eve, when House had ODed on a dead patient's Oxy. What did they mean by help? Well, rehab, originally. Looking back on it, Wilson really wasn't sure what he, Cuddy and Tritter had expected to achieve. House had only really begun to fall apart drastically when his Vicodin had been taken away. There had been problems before, but House off Vicodin was substantially more depressed than House on Vicodin.

Cuddy had been wrong. Most of the time, Wilson agreed with her decisions, but this time, he firmly believed that not managing House's pain was entirely the wrong decision. To be fair, she had tried – Neurontin, and a couple of other non-narcotic pain meds. They failed. Cuddy had given up, and told House just to keep trying the Neurontin. That wasn't right. No one should be expected to live in pain. No one should be expected to just suck it up. That was why he had been known to roll medical marijuana. That was why he had assisted the suicide of several of his terminal patients.

That was why he had given House the Vicodin.

24 hours. It had only been 24 hours since House had left on his vacation. It was hard to believe – it felt like much longer. Time always seemed to stretch out more when House wasn't around. Wilson was a little hurt that House hadn't called him yet, although he would never have said it out loud – it would have sounded incredibly petty. But House had promised that he would call as soon as his plane arrived, and that should have been hours ago. Wilson had tried calling him, but his phone, surprise surprise, had been switched off. Wilson couldn't help but worry. What if the plane had been diverted, and now House was stranded at some airport? His leg would be giving him hell. What if House had been in an accident of some kind? There were so many possibilities.

And they were all so unlikely, and so typical of him to think of. He was overreacting. As usual. He always seemed to overreact where House was concerned. Damn him for making Wilson care so much! How did he do it?

There was a knock on the door. He didn't have another patient due for another half hour or so, which meant that his visitor was either one of the oncology staff or, more likely, Dr. Cameron. Since House had been admitted to rehab, Cameron had been spending rather too much time around Wilson than he would have liked. He wasn't sure what the immunologist hoped to achieve – what was it that she wanted to know? He was pretty sure that it was to do with House. Or maybe he was reading too much into it – maybe Cameron liked him, or simply thought that he needed a friend.

"Come in," Wilson called. The door opened, revealing, as Wilson had expected, Allison Cameron. She smiled at him, shut the door and breezed over to his desk.

"Morning, Dr. Wilson!" she smiled. She offered him a bag. "Cookie?"

"Uh..."

"I picked them up from the bakery on the way to work. Chase was looking a bit down yesterday, and I figured that everyone here could use a bit of cheering up. So, do you want one?"

"I'll pass, thanks."

"Oh, okay. Suit yourself."

Wilson cleared his throat, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Cameron always managed to make him feel uncomfortable, somehow. It didn't matter whether she was being sweet, like now, or whether she was having a go at him, as she had done just after he had made the Deal (with a capital "D") with Tritter.

"Is there, um, something that you particularly wanted, Cameron?" To be honest, he didn't exactly like Cameron. She tended to spend more time bitching at him than offering him cookies, and as a result, he couldn't help but feel suspicious that she had an underlying motive.

"Oh, no, not really." A pause. "Only, I heard House was going on vacation today. Know anything about that?"

Wilson did his best not to sigh over-dramatically. Of course. It was always about House. "Yeah, he's on vacation. What about it?" he answered shortly.

"Nothing in particular. Do you know where he went?"

"Hawaii," Wilson snapped. Why was Cameron annoying him so much? It wasn't that he was jealous, was it? Jealous of what? He certainly didn't want Cameron fawning over him the way she did over House.

He just wanted Cameron to leave his boyfriend alone.

Boyfriend. How adolescent did that sound? He had never really referred to House as anything other than his best friend before. Boyfriend didn't sound right. "Partner" would probably work better, Wilson mused.

He realized that Cameron was still in the room, and looking slightly taken aback by his tone.

"I was only asking," she muttered. She made her way to the door. Wilson didn't try to stop her.

He comforted himself with the knowledge that House would prefer him to her any day. He had chosen Wilson, hadn't he? He had. Wilson needed to stop being so paranoid.

If only House would return his calls.


	9. Chapter 9 : Extreme Waxing

**AN: Well, avid readers, turns out you guys don't like Non-Angst Land all that much. That's a shame. Still, Angst Land is now back, and it's back with a vengeance. Thanks to my wonderful beta, daisylily, who has been helping me with what is and isn't physically possible, as well as being awesome in general. Most of the ideas for this chapter's violence came from my friend X, who can't be with us today because she doesn't have an account. Other ideas that were suggested by her but that I decided not to use included "anaesthetic-less vasectomy" and "being raped with a circular saw". The girl watches way too many horror films. **

**(This author's note is rated M, by the way.)**

**And... So is the fic. Look, if you're adverse to graphic violence and you're _still_ reading this, then you must be trying damn hard to ignore the huge letter 'M's that keep appearing all over the place. **

**I don't own House, MD.**

Chapter 9

It was so dark. So reassuringly dark. He could open his eyes without the burning pain of the bright lights. He couldn't see his torturer, the man that had made it his job to hurt him until he couldn't take it any more. Maybe Tritter was hiding in the shadows, obscured by the darkness, but until House saw him, he didn't have to worry about that.

The silence was equally comforting. The absence of Tritter's voice allowed his mind to wander, to imagine that he was somewhere else, that this wasn't really happening.

He had given up trying to tell reality from delusion. Pain was pain, whether it was imagined or not. He had given up on just about everything. He was entirely dependant on Tritter. Tritter had all of the power. He had all of the control. There was no way that House was going to get out of here. To begin with, he had been certain that someone, anyone, would notice that he wasn't where he was meant to be. But the truth was, everyone back home was expecting him to be in Hawaii for another two weeks. Maybe less. House had lost track of time.

The point was, it would be another two weeks before anyone realised that something wasn't right. Before anyone thought of looking for him. Two weeks of agony. Two weeks of _this_. He would rather just die, here, now, than let Tritter destroy him any more than he already had done. If only he could think past the pain, he would start to formulate some way to end the torture now, rather than suffer any more of this.

"I'm still here, you know."

House's heart began to pound in his chest at Tritter's voice. He couldn't face this, he didn't want to. He couldn't take it any more, he really couldn't.

"Please," he heard himself rasp. "No more. I can't do this..."  
"What made you think that this was optional, Dr. House?"

He felt something slam into the small of his back. It wasn't the most painful thing that Tritter had done, but his body was already so tired and worn out that even the slightest touch caused him pain. He rolled with the punch, kick, whatever it was, over from his back onto his hand.

His right hand.

He couldn't even scream. His throat was raw, and the only sound that he managed to produce was a pathetic cross between a sob and a whimper. He wanted to curse, wanted to shout out every swear word of every language that he had ever learnt, but he couldn't even do that. He felt something hot and wet spilling down his face, but he didn't care. It wasn't like he had any dignity left anyway.

His t-shirt was gone. He figured that Tritter must have stripped it from him during one of his periods of unconsciousness. He could feel something sharp digging into his chest. A knife, probably. Tritter seemed to have a thing about knives.

House gritted his teeth as he felt Tritter make a small incision just under his collarbone. His inner sane person (who sounded an awful lot like Wilson) congratulated him on not making a sound. His whole body stiffened as he felt Tritter's fingers probing the cut, far from gently. What the hell was he up to? This was causing him pain, but on way too small a scale for Tritter to be satisfied. He was going to do something that would really, really hurt.

Another two quick stabs of pain as the knife cut in again. One part of him wanted to celebrate the lack of pain so far. But his inner Wilson knew what was still to come.

House's whole body shuddered as pain exploded in his chest. Through the shroud of pain, he vaguely realised that Tritter had peeled a strip of skin from the left side of his torso. Like extreme waxing, commented his inner Wilson.

Christ, he could feel Tritter's fingernails scrabbling around slightly to the right of the original wound. He was evidently planning on repeating the procedure. Many times, if House knew Tritter, which by now he did, all too well.

He was still crying, he knew. His brain was sending out endorphins, desperately trying to fight back against the wave of agony, but Mother Nature's Vicodin wasn't doing the job, and the tears kept on coming.

Thank God he still had his inner Wilson. Most psychiatrists would probably argue that the presence of a voice inside one's head wasn't the best way to preserve one's mental health, but it worked for him. The real Wilson would be even better, but for now, he would take what he could get.

He could hear his sobs growing louder. That person, that pathetic, sobbing person, it was him. God, Allah, Yahweh, please let the pain stop, please let it stop, please. Someone, anyone, have mercy. What had he done to deserve this?


	10. Chapter 10 : Disagreements

**AN: Yeah. I know. I suck. I really, really suck. It's been three weeks without an update. I'm sorry, it was just that real life went and got in the way – between the exams and the "arg arg arg"-ing that results from exams I didn't have time to update. I did write a short little crack!ficlet, if you want to read it – I named it "Purple Dolphins and Kisses". Shush. I know that I have problems.**

**Anyway, at least chapter ten is here now, right? Because I'm stressed and have had exams, it's back to Non Angst Land again. Please stop with the booing and hissing. I know I suck; I already made that point several times. But this is vital to the plot. Yes, there is a plot. Now shut up, and read slowly, for Heaven's sake. If you're really good, and maybe drop me a review, I might write you Chapter Eleven by tonight. **

**Enough from me. I still don't own House, MD. I also don't own the Sheraton Kauai resort, but it looks awesome, so you should definitely head over there at some point. I don't know whether one of the receptionists is actually called Lea, but for the purposes of this story, one is. This chapter is rated a happy little PG-13. **

Chapter Ten

"Dr. Wilson, I think you're worrying unnecessarily," Cuddy said, sitting down at her desk. Wilson took a seat opposite her.

"House wouldn't do this," he argued.

"Because he's never not kept in contact before? House doesn't do keeping people informed. His phone's battery is probably flat, or something. Don't worry. It's not like there's anything you can do about it anyway."

"Cuddy, I have a bad feeling. About all of this. I don't know why, but when I put it together with the fact that House hasn't called when he promised he would and the fact that I can't reach him... Something's wrong. I can feel it."

Cuddy sighed. She pushed her chair back slightly, and opened the top drawer of desk. After searching for a few seconds, she pulled out a small piece of paper with a phone number scribbled on it. She held it out to Wilson. "Here. That's the number of the hotel that House is staying at. Call them. Speak to him. Then go back to work, and stop worrying! You'll make yourself ill one of these days."

"Thanks, Cuddy." Wilson didn't voice the fact that House had already taken ten years off of his life. Probably more. "Can I use your phone?"

"Of course."

Wilson tapped the number that Cuddy had given him into the keypad and put the receiver to his ear. The phone rang twice, before Wilson was greeted by a stiff female voice.

"I'm sorry, but the line is busy. Please call back later."

Wilson sighed as he put the phone down.

"Any joy?" Cuddy asked him. Seeing the annoyed look on his face, she gave a small smile. "Sorry. Stupid question."

"The line was engaged."

"Well, it's a big resort. Try again."

"What, now?"

Cuddy nodded in response. Wilson picked up the phone and redialled. This time, the receptionist picked up on the second ring.

"Hello, this is the Sheraton Kauai resort. My name is Lea, how can I help you?" Lea sounded cheerful – much too cheerful for Wilson's liking at that particular time. Still, better than a surly receptionist who would be disinclined to help him.

"Hi. My name's James Wilson. I'm trying to contact one of your guests – a Dr. Gregory House. Do you think you could put me through to him?"

"Could you wait for a moment please, Mr. Wilson?" There was a pause. Wilson could just about hear the sound of the keys of a computer being tapped.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Wilson." The receptionist's voice was tinged with regret that Wilson was certain was being faked. "Dr. House never arrived here at the resort. He was supposed to arrive three days ago, am I right?"  
Wilson was stunned. House had never arrived at the resort? What the hell had happened? Hundreds of possibilities began to flit through his mind. House was stuck somewhere, House had been locked up, House was hurt, House was in a hospital, House was dead. He shook his head to clear it of the unpleasant mental images that came flooding in at that thought.

"Mr. Wilson?" Damn, the receptionist was still on the phone. He'd forgotten about her.

"Uh, yes, yes he was. Um, are you sure?"  
"I can double check for you if you like?"

"Yes, please." But Wilson was fairly certain that the second search wasn't going to yield any more information than the first.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Wilson, but I am sure that Dr. House isn't at our resort. His flight arrived, and some other people on his flight have arrived as well." The receptionist sounded one part perplexed, two parts apologetic. "I assure you that I will look into what has happened. I'm sure that there is nothing to worry about."  
"Thanks for your help." Shell-shocked and more worried than he had been before the call, Wilson put the phone down.

"Well?" Cuddy prompted, standing up and walking over to stand near Wilson. Shit. Wilson had forgotten that she was there.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. "House isn't there. He never arrived at the hotel. His flight did, but either he wasn't on it or something else happened in between the airport and the resort. Cuddy, this isn't good. I _told_ you that something was wrong. My God, anything could have happened! He could be hurt, he could be-"

"Wilson!" Cuddy cut in. "Calm down. This is just House's way. It's just the kind of thing he would do – deliberately go to a different hotel, just to make us worry."

"Well, if that's House's plan, he's succeeded. We need to call the police."

"That's a huge overreaction. House is messing with us, trying to pay us back for forcing him into rehab against his will."

Wilson hissed out a breath of repressed anger. "Cuddy, you're not listening-"

"Just keep trying to contact House, okay? If he still hasn't returned your calls in two days time, then we can think again about calling the police." Cuddy ran a hand through her hair. "House is a grown man. The police aren't going to do anything about a missing adult unless we can provide proof that he's likely to be harmed."

Wilson gave an angry bark of laughter. "So that's your plan – pretend that everything is okay, even when it obviously isn't?"

"We don't know!" Cuddy shot back, her voice beginning to rise in both in pitch and volume. "That's exactly the problem, Wilson – we have no idea what's going on! There are about a thousand different explanations for why House isn't at the hotel, and most of them involve him screwing with us. I understand that he's your friend, and that you-"

"For God's sake, Cuddy!" Wilson was shouting, and the calmer part of his mind told him that he should just calm down and make his point rationally, but he was too angry at Cuddy's seeming indifference to House's situation. "You know, I forgave you for going against House's express wishes seven years ago. You did what you thought was right, even if it was the opposite of what House wanted. But if anything, _anything_ happens to House, I will never forgive you for not doing anything to help."  
Cuddy blanched. The comment about the infarction had hit a nerve, which was exactly what Wilson had intended for it do to. "At least I was there seven years ago," Cuddy said, quietly and with more than a trace of venom in her voice. "Where were you?"

Wilson felt his stomach clench. He wanted to shout at Cuddy, even attack her. But what would that solve? It wouldn't help House. He could be suspended, lose his job, go to jail, all because he had allowed a colleague to make him angry. He didn't even dislike Cuddy, usually. The two of them normally got on fairly well. It was just… House… House made everything more complicated, even when he wasn't there.

"Fine," Wilson spat, voice even quieter than Cuddy's had been. "Fine. Do whatever the hell you want. I'm going to report House as missing. I hope you sleep well tonight." He turned on his heel and stormed out of Cuddy's office, slamming through the double doors and into the clinic.

He didn't see Cuddy sit back down. He didn't see the tear rolling silently down her cheek.


	11. Chapter 10b : Thinking

**AN: So I promised you a chapter. The (half) chapter in question is angst-free (well, free of House torture angst, anyway) and probably not great quality. In my defence I had an annoying PT session today. My physio is, shall we say, not exactly all there, which doesn't make it so fun when she's randomly pulling my limbs in different directions. And she makes me do PT at home three times a day. Bitch.**

**Repressed cripple anger aside, I apologise for the poor quality of this chapter. The purpose of it is to try to resolve the issues between Cuddy and Wilson. Please read it slowly, and I'll be sure to have you another torture-based chapter by Wednesday.**

Chapter 10.5

Cuddy blinked furiously, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. Why was she crying? Why had she allowed herself to be riled by Wilson's comments? And why did she feel so guilty about what she had said to him in return?

Deep down, she knew exactly what it was that was making her so emotional. She was worried. She could say what she liked to Wilson, but when it came down to it, she was just as worried about House as he was. The fact that he hadn't arrived at the hotel just didn't make sense. Swapping hotels just wasn't the kind of thing House would do; there was no point to it. There was no advantage that he could gain from going to a different resort, especially since Cuddy had hand-picked the resort and paid for it herself. Why would House not take advantage of that?

Something must have happened. The possibilities were endless, and none of them good. Part of her agreed with Wilson completely – they should call the police, get them to track House down. But then again, what if House was fine, and they really were just worrying about nothing? And, more importantly, what if she was wrong, and something bad had happened?  
What if House was dead?

She shuddered at the thought. It was no use thinking like that. She knew that the plane hadn't crashed. There was a possibility that he had been involved in an accident en route to the resort, but apart from that, nothing seemed likely.

She should go to Wilson. She should make peace with him, apologise for what she had said and then graciously accept the apology that she knew he would offer in return. She should buy him a coffee, and the two of them should start to discuss what they should do next.

But to do that would be to admit that something had gone wrong. To apologise to Wilson would mean that she could no longer hide behind the possibility that everything was fine. She couldn't face that. She knew that it was pathetic, but it was just so much easier to keep on believing that she was right, Wilson was wrong, House was fine.

House was fine.

* * *

Wilson sat down in his office with a sigh. He had made the call, let the police know what was going on, and they had said exactly what Cuddy had predicted – House was a grown man, he was probably in no danger, but they would call the police in the local area and have them look into it. Still, it was better than nothing. At least now he felt like he was doing _something_ to help his friend.

Among the worry, he felt shame and guilt begin to creep in. He had lost it in front of Cuddy. He had shouted, and he had made unfair accusations, and he couldn't stop thinking about how close he had come to hitting her. What he had done, what he had said, had been completely wrong and completely inappropriate. But... she had just made him so _angry_, the way she refused to take him seriously, the way she treated him like he was a child. Even though in the end, she had been right, and the police hadn't taken him seriously either.

Cuddy still didn't know – about them. House and Wilson hadn't yet told her about how their relationship had developed since they had repaired their friendship. As far as she knew, they were just that – friends, exactly the way they had always been. Well, to an extent they were. There was still the same deep friendship, the same deep respect, the same love that there had always been.

Only now, there was sex. Lots of sex.

Wilson let out another shaky sigh. Where the hell was House? The man may not do all that much around the hospital, but without him the place fell apart. If the two of them hadn't been so riled up about House's disappearance, things between Wilson and Cuddy would never have escalated so rapidly.

Cuddy's comment had hit deep. He had never blamed Stacy, the loving, caring girlfriend who had only ever done what she thought was best. He hadn't even blamed Cuddy, not really. The woman had done what she had to do. Legally, she had been obligated to follow Stacy's wishes. He had never forgiven himself for not being there.

He had been at some stupid conference. Over in Seattle; he remembered it well. He had forgotten to turn his phone off while one of the speakers was talking, and it was just as well, because halfway through Stacy had called him. His ring tone had been tinny and embarrassingly loud in the silent hall, and many of those attending had turned to glare at him. He had whispered an apology, along the lines of a patient needing him, before hurrying with the phone out into the lobby. He had snapped into the phone, and had been greeted by Stacy's panicked sobs. She had cried as she told him that there was something wrong with Greg, had been for days, the doctors had thought it was nothing, and now he was lying in Intensive Care under heavy sedation. He attempted to question her about the medical side of things, but she could only tell him that Greg was in pain.

He was supposed to have been speaking at the conference, and he had told Stacy just that. He had said that he couldn't get a flight back to be with them until the next day, when he had finished. She had begged him to return earlier, saying that she needed someone to talk to, someone that could explain the medical jargon to her. He had told her that he had to stay, there was no other option, he was sorry and that he would be there as soon as he could.

Looking back, speaking at a conference seemed completely insignificant compared to what had been going on back in New Jersey. Stacy had called him again the next day, less than an hour before he was meant to speak, almost hysterical, saying that Greg had a blood clot and that his heart had stopped. He hadn't wasted another second. He had booked a flight back to New Jersey there and then.

House had never seemed to harbour resentment towards him for not being there at the beginning. But then, Cuddy had never seemed to either, until she had spat the accusation out in their argument.

He should apologise to her. He knew that. But he also knew that she was right – he should have been there, and he felt hugely guilty about it.

He couldn't face Cuddy just yet.


	12. Chapter 11 : A Taste of Things To Come

**AN: Sorry about the horrendously long wait. It is now the 13th of March. I said I would have this done by mid-February. Real life, yadda yadda, you know the deal. I apologise profusely. X gave me the main idea for this chapter, and also was a general beta person, so thanks to her. Thanks also to daisylily, my medical (and general) beta, who is made of awesome.**

**Chapter 11 is an M. If it were a movie, it would probably be a 21, or an 18 at the least. If you have night terrors, or PTSD, or a similar mental illness, then for God's sake don't read it. Not all that much happens, you're not missing anything. Anyone that doesn't want to read the graphic violence and hints of other equally nasty things, as well as strong language, I'll put a three sentence summary of what happened at the bottom. I think that's fair. **

**I don't own House, MD.**

Chapter 11

"House," Tritter's voice teased gently. The sound echoed around House's half-asleep pain-filled brain, distorted and nauseating. House groaned as pain flared up again, in his fingers, his chest, his leg. Pain was all that he was aware of. Pain, and the voice.

"House," insisted Tritter's voice. He felt his shoulders being shaken slightly, and he winced at the pain in his chest. Ow, ow, ow. He moaned again, wishing that the pain would just end.

"Come on now, House," said Tritter, mockingly. House didn't even bother to open his eyes. If it was dark, there was no point, and if it was light, he didn't want to see. "You'll miss all the fun. Wake up."

House gave a small, shuddering sob. Pain. Tritter. Pain. He sobbed again as he felt Tritter's strong fingers prise his eyelids open. The light was too bright. It burned his eyes. "That's better, now, isn't it?" Tritter said, softly. House allowed Tritter to push him up into a sitting position. There was nothing he could do to stop him, and as he had found out long ago, resistance was indeed futile. He had to do what Tritter told him to. If he did what he was told, he wouldn't have to be hurt any more. If he had done what he was told, Daddy wouldn't have had to hurt him. Daddy hadn't wanted to hurt him, but Greg had made it so that there was no other way. This was all Greg's fault. Why couldn't he just be good, like all the other little boys? Why did he have to be such a disappointment? Why couldn't he make Daddy happy?

House's shoulders were shaking with sobs, but he was too dehydrated to cry tears. His throat was dry and scratchy, and his mouth still tasted of bile, but he didn't care, because all that mattered was the pain. House felt Tritter's hard, muscled arm gripping his shoulders, and tried to shrink away from the plastic disposable cup as it was raised to his lips. Tritter, however, held him in place and forced a small amount of water into his mouth. Realising what he was being offered, House gratefully gulped down the mouthful of liquid. It was cool, soothing his irritated throat as he swallowed. He savoured the water, knowing that he wouldn't get any more for hours. Not that hours had any meaning here. Seconds felt like minutes, hours felt like days.

House felt Tritter push him back down so that he was lying on the floor. Less dizziness, that was good. Tritter was trying to help him. He should have realised that from the beginning. Tritter had only ever tried to do what was best for House, and House owed him an apology, but he couldn't speak for the sobs that wracked his almost emaciated form.

"Don't worry, House," Tritter's voice soothed. A hand stroked his forehead. House wanted to lean in to the comfort, but that was wrong. He couldn't do that. "It's Day Five, House. Not long to go now. Nine days from now, your friends will realise that something's wrong, and they'll start looking for you. And when the police find us, I'll kill you, and the pain will all be over. No more pain, House. Wouldn't you like that?"

"Yes," House managed to mumble.

"Good boy," Tritter said, in the same soft, comforting voice. Hands were rolling him over to lie on his front. Fingers were unbuttoning his stiff jeans and pulling them down. This was wrong, and House knew it. Something was wrong. This wasn't supposed to happen. His father would be ashamed. He made a vague sound of distress in the back of his throat, and was answered by Tritter's hand pressing down hard on the back of his thigh. His vision exploded into bright bursts of light. His inner Wilson was silent, as he had been for nearly a day now. In desperation, House turned his head to one side and concentrated on not thinking about anything as he felt Tritter pulling at his boxers. He felt a hand sliding up his left thigh, moving gradually closer to somewhere that it shouldn't be going. This wasn't right. The same hand squeezed at the flesh just above his left hip, before travelling inwards. No. Think about something else. Think about anything else.

There were bugs crawling across the floor. At first it looked as though there were only five or ten of them, but as they crossed his line of vision, he realised that there were more and more of them, all swarming over to him. They looked a little like ants, but far too big, and far too ferocious, and far too slimy. They were like mutants, like nothing he had ever seen before, and they frightened the living hell out of him.

"Fuck," House whimpered. It was the only coherent thought he could manage to voice. There was pain as well, coming from somewhere that wasn't his hand or his leg or his chest, and a strange grunting noise, but that wasn't important. The bugs were coming towards him, he could feel their small, wet, webbed feet on his uninjured hand. They were repulsive, and they just kept on coming. "Fuck," House whispered again, his voice beginning to grow louder. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!" He was screaming now in pure terror at the beings that were beginning to seep up over his body. They were crawling on his face, into his eyes. He tried to raise a hand to swipe desperately at the insects, but they were pinning his hand down, and he couldn't move. He was still screaming, inarticulately now, but even so, he could still just about hear that same, strange, rhythmic grunting sound behind him. He gagged, vomiting up his hard-won water, and as the contents of his stomach splashed onto the concrete floor, the bugs disappeared.

But he couldn't move. His head was being held in place by two strong, straight pieces of metal. He screamed again, desperately twisting and turning, attempting to free himself from his restraints, but to no avail. He fell limp, but his body kept on moving, thrusting forwards, the grunting still present. He was sobbing again, because this wasn't right, this wasn't what his father wanted. Dad was going to be angry, and when Dad got angry, Greg got hurt. Dad was going to shout, tell him that he was pathetic, that he wasn't a real man. Dad was going to be ashamed of him.

The metal was closing in on his body, restraints grabbing at him with clawed steel hands, bruising his arms. He stiffened his body. It would all be over soon, he recited, it would all be over soon. It would all be over soon. But the metal was closing in on him, growing closer, growing more and more oppressive, consuming him. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe.

_THE THREE SENTENCE SUMMARY:_

_House wakes up from one of his increasingly frequent slumbers, on the fifth day of his incarceration. Tritter then proceeds to rape House, but fortunately House is too far gone to realise what Tritter is doing. Unfortunately, House hallucinates about bugs and Saw traps, and consequently screams a lot._

_I am twisted, and for that, I am sorry._


End file.
